Lose Yourself & Remember: There is No Love Here
by Somber-and-Resplendent
Summary: The gypsy was hopeful, spilling confessions that would someday earn her an answer to her prayer: God help the outcasts or nobody will. However, such confessions spill at the feet of a dark individual who will twist them and use them as he pleases.


**Note: This story was created to fill a prompt on Disney Kink at Live Journal**

 **Warning: Violence & Non-Consensual **

_Lose Yourself & Remember: There Is No Love Here_

* * *

The gypsy was breathless. She had been running for far too long in dire hope of evading that dark, solemn man, however the Cathedral beckoned her to venture inside and keep safe from the blistering storm that ensued beyond its walls. And though the checkered floor beneath her was like a slab of ice, she felt certain warmth while lingering in the Holy place—Notre-Dame.

"What are you doing in here, heathen?" said a stern voice. A large hand followed the demand and gripped her shoulder, for she was an outcast, a gypsy; and her race was disparaged. Sneering, she glared at the man before her, a simple Parisian who was unsettled by her presence in the church.

"Come to confess your sins?" he mocked with a smirk, watching her down the length of his nose. "God hasn't the patience for that multitude."

"Yet he has the patience to deal with you?" She snapped, fury stealing her sanity. It possessed her body as she snatched a candle from one of the nearby floor candelabras that were aligned with the stone pillars.

"Witch!" cried the man, cowering away from her and hiding his miserable face behind his hands. Heads turned and many glowered at her, searing her flesh with their disapproval.

And then a familiar voice shattered her anger.

"Leave the child be," said the Archdeacon, raising a hand in protest and dispelling the hatred that surrounded the gypsy. "All are welcome in God's house."

The accusing man snickered at the Priest's words and sauntered away, joining the indifferent horde of God-fearing souls that lingered in the shadows, their dark eyes reluctant to turn away from the heathen woman.

"Thank you," she managed, lowering her head in gratitude and noticing the river of wax that oozed down her dark wrists from the weeping candle she clutched.

The Priest dryly smiled, "Forget his words, child. God listens to all confessions."

Inwardly, she cringed, for in theory believing in God was simple, but in practice it was a much more difficult task. Glancing towards the dark confessional hidden behind the pillars, she dared to imagine that her prayers of being accepted among the Parisians, no longer an outcast, might be answered if she could only surrender to a greater force and confess the sins she had long held within.

Indulging in her inner thoughts, she crossed towards the confessional, entered, and awaited the Priest's presence to grace her on the other side. And when he entered, she quickly seated herself as to not evoke any suspicion of her timorous state. However, he did not speak.

"Father?" she whispered, "Are you there?"

Silence mocked her and she quickly felt odd and out of place, recoiling to the stern man's words: _What are you doing in here, heathen?_ Yet, on the other side of the confessional sat a man who was entirely out of place: Judge Claude Frollo.

The old Judge had escaped within the dark confinements of the confessional, for had he not, he'd have strangled the overbearing Archdeacon, the old bastard who detested his practices of law by offering sanctuary to unruly heathens. It was maddening how he protected the foul criminals, outlandish at the highest.

"Father?" asked the gypsy.

The Judge sneered, he hadn't been aware that someone lingered on the other side. Muttering dark curses, he slid open the wooden barrier between them, a mesh obscuring his view.

He scoffed, "A sinner."

She clenched her teeth at that word, _sinner_ ; it branded the unfaithful, that heavy mark, wearisome and frightening.

"I am not a sinner," she spat in a dark tone, and he curtly grinned at the recognition of her husky voice. Though moments earlier she had evaded him in the storm, she was now in his hands, caught. And he would play the game until he was satisfied.

"Oh, but you are a sinner," he began, "That's why you are here."

"Perhaps," she whispered, recalling the blood soaking into the cobblestone outside of the fisher's market, the young man with a knife lodged into his right eye socket, and the snarling Judge, ordering his men to arrest her. Ashamed and oddly confused, feeling that the blame was her own, she wrapped her arms around herself, golden bracelets clanking at the motion, and she mouthed the very words that left her shivering: _I am a sinner._

"Confess," said Frollo.

"But it wasn't my-" She paused. The words had trapped themselves in her throat as realization fell upon her bare shoulders, weighting her down. _Sin_ , she thought, _sin._

Irritated with her silence, he bellowed, "Confess!"

And she did.

"I danced for them," she began. "I danced for all of them. They paid me well."

He snickered at her words. The thought of her, this gypsy witch, dancing in the lowest of brothels, ensnaring God's men and polluting their once faithful minds with perverse yearnings, was maddening.

"' _Let down your hair, La Esmeralda_ ,'" they'd say. And I'd do it."

Frollo silently cursed his soul as his parched fingers dug into his judicial robe, her confession illuminating an unholy vision before his eyes: She stands before the fiendish crowd, their dirty, desperate hands reaching out so that they might grace the bronze silk that is her skin. And obeying their commands, she releases the golden pin in her hair, raven curls falling to her shoulders.

"' _Hitch up your dress_ ,'" they'd say, tossing their silver at my feet. And I did."

He clenched his teeth, that unholy vision tormenting his supposed God-serving mind: Her nimble fingers lift her dark skirts as a rain of silver surrounds her. Beautiful legs are exposed to the greedy eyes of the scoundrels that call for her. And he groaned; he had given in.

After her confession had ceased and she waited in silence for a response, she called to him, "Father? Will I be forgiven?"

He choked, "Yes."

She gasped, lifted her hands to her face, and grinned at the idea that her prayers would soon be answered by a forgiving God. However, it would come at a cost, one that Frollo would name.

"But you've sinned," he began, attempting to calm his erratic breathing, "and sinners are to be punished." His voice became gruff as sweat dribbled down the side of his pale, aged face. It was hopeless to spurn the heated feelings she had stirred within him.

 _Punished_ , he mouthed, the image of her naked body before him, dancing and teasing, tempting his celibacy just as she had on that faithful, January day. Enticed, he succumbed to the vision, yearning to snatch her, the apparition, the temptress that taunted him and scornfully laughed at his rising, hardened member.

"Witch!" he darkly growled.

"Father?" asked the gypsy, peering through the mesh inside the window. Her gaze was obscured and only shadows and emptiness bid her greeting, for Frollo was gone. And she blamed herself, this sinner who had petrified the acclaimed Holy Priest sitting on the other side with her multitude of sins.

And then the handle to the door clicked, and a shadow fell upon her.

To her horror, the Judge, the man she thought she had evaded in the fisher's market, her dagger lodged in the fisherman's eye for daring to discipline her, stood in the doorway. Panting, nostrils flared and wide-eyed, he entered despite her protest.

"Get out," she spat, brow lowered, red lips snarling. But he had been dragged over the edge, and the fury of a gypsy, much less a woman, was trivial.

He smirked and neared her, "I don't believe you are in the position to be making commands. After all, it is I who hold your salvation. And should you fail to surrender to me, forgiveness shall never find you."

She gaped; his demands were infuriating and ludicrous. He snickered at her hesitation, traced his thumb along the curve of her bottom lip, and reveled in the feeling of owning them.

And then she bit him.

Cursing her, he shoved her, body slamming into the back wall of the confessional. She grunted, reached for her head, but was soon denied air as his hand snatched her by the neck, fingers digging into her flesh. She gasped and choked, clawed at his hand and desperately fought to release his iron hold, but it was to no avail.

With her pinned to the wall, her dependence for air resting solely upon him, he reached for her blouse and roughly ripped the flimsy material off of her, allowing her plump breasts to spill into view. He licked his lips in hunger and prepared to sink his teeth into her, however she wriggled violently in his hold, breasts bouncing back and forth, and he was displeased.

"Obey!" he bellowed.

"Burn in Hell!" she snapped back, her fury consuming the humiliation of being stripped before him.

He responded with a curt smile, buried his face within her chest, and dragged his teeth across her tender flesh. His fingers roughly groped her, pinched and twisted her nipples leaving scattered red marks upon her. It was as if all the drunken lust and dark passion from the brooding men at the brothel were enigmatically mixed and contained within him, the strength of each and every one of them drained from their bodies and controlled by him.

And somehow his unrestrained intensity ensnared her, though she dare not admit. Angered by her own dark desire, she sneered and allowed herself a brief moment of triumph, kicking the old Judge and liberating herself from his hold.

However, her freedom was short-lived. He snatched a fist full of her raven curls, tangling the strands in between his fingers, and sharply pulled her into his presence. Her back crashed into his chest, and before she could yelp, repulsed at the feeling of his hard cock pressing up against her, he twisted his hand within her hair and shoved her forward.

With her chest firmly pressed against the inside of the door, her fingers inches away from the handle, he kept her pinned beneath him, one hand tightly wound in her hair, the other reaching into his black robe for his twitching cock. And in one swift movement, he plunged into her dripping cunt.

And how utterly wicked she felt about her dark arousal for this fervent man who challenged the passions of those drunken men: His hot breath hitting the side of her neck and his fingers clutching her hair was intolerable, nevertheless their sin pooled at their feet.

May God forgive them both.

 **A/N: If you liked it, tell me what you think! :) Reviews are appreciated.**


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